Under The Influence Of
by Bendydicky
Summary: Moriarty likes to play games, and isn't Sherlock just so much fun?
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is a very short WIP, but shouldn't take too long to finish. Reviews and requests welcomed!

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It's dark. It's been dark since he got here. Sherlock thinks he can hear someone. He can't be sure. There's something blocking his sight.

His head is fuzzy and his body cold. It feels like someone has been hitting it with a hammer. Someone probably has.

He blinks against the cloth covering his eyes, nothing. He can't move his eye lids, it's tied to tight.

How long has it been? He has lost track. When did he get here? He can't remember. Where is John? He doesn't know. Where exactly is here?

Soon a soft teasing voice breaks through the pounding in his skull. "Hello love, I would shake your hand, but at the moment you are a bit tied up." A soft chuckle comes out of the man who has him here.

Where is here?

Sherlock grunts in response, brain not forming words, to fuzzy. Is he drugged? Can't tell.

The man tisks at him, "Manners, Sherlock, surely your mother thought you some."

Sherlock grunts again, "Oh well, I guess I'll have to teach you." The man walks forward, slapping Sherlock hard against his face.

That voice, he has heard it before. The soft Irish lilt, the song like quality. Moriarty. Sherlock rolls his head to the side in weak attempt to fight.

"There, there love. No rush."

A soft hand is placed on his left shoulder. He can feel the heat, the moister from sweat, only for a moment before the hand and it's owner leave.

Sherlock's head starts to spin faster, skull feels like it's bursting, stomach lurching. Drugged, definitely.


	2. Chapter 2

"Ello sweet heart, enjoy your nap?" Sherlock awoke to a short, brown haired man smiling down at him. He shifted in his seat to find his legs and hands tied to a chair. The pain in his lower back told him he'd been there for awhile.

He grunted, lifting his head to look the man in his eyes, they were cold and dark. The man, no Moriarty, smiled wider as he ran a hunting knife down Sherlock's nose. Not applying enough pressure to break skin, but enough to cause the detective discomfort.

"Don't." Sherlock managed to croak out, his throat feeling sore and rough.

Jim glared at him, "Oh please do shut up! Don't make me gag you that would be so dull." The Irish man said dragging out the dull as if it were the worst insult he could think of.

Sherlock looked around the room, dark only a single incandescent light bulb light the space: no sun light. Concert walls: probably thick, sound proof. Stair case going up: basement. He was in a room made for interrogation, made so that no one could hear him scream. He would have a hard time getting out of here, and most likely the ideas he could come up with to escape would have already been thought of by Moriarty.

"What do you want?" Sherlock got out, throat still feeling tight and head still groggy.

"I just want to play," Jim mused, running the blade back down Sherlock's nose, "thought we could be friends."

Sherlock pulled his head away from the blade, making Jim tsk. "Now, now. Don't do that. Don't act all defiant and afraid I am going to hurt you." He smiled widely, "We both know I am going to. The only question is how much, and I am afraid that's a question I will be leaving up to you to answer."

He coyly ran the blade down the detectives cheek, applying just a tad bit more pressure. Sherlock swallowed hard. Putting together words was difficult, it was difficult to think. His head was spinning, "John, he'll find me."

"Oh really? You think your little boyfriend can out smart me." It was a rhetorical question, meant to tease, meant to get a response. Sherlock wasn't having it. He stayed silent and watched Jim shake his head, "No, I don't think he will. I think he'll try. Oh yes, but then he'll give up. They all do eventually."

The man smiled again, a wide and hungry smile. His eyes were glowing as he brought down the knife to cut Sherlock's left cheek.

Sherlock realized what had happened long before he felt the pain. He blamed it on what ever drug was in his body. It was a small cut, superficial wound. It only stung, but being on his face it started to bleed profusely.

"Beautiful." Moriarty whispered into his ear. Then licked away the blood, Sherlock pulled away from him.

Sherlock's breathing was getting faster and more panicked now. He could deal with pain, he could make a plan to escape, but something in the way Moriarty looked at him made his stomach clench. It was animalistic hunger. Jim's eyes were dark and empty. In Sherlock's dazed out state he imagined that they were like the eyes of a demon. Something he might have seen in a night terror as a little kid. It sent chills down his spine.

"Tut-tut-tut, see this is what I am talking about. Manners Sher. Didn't your mummy teach you any." Jim playfully slapped the detectives face a few times before lowering himself to look him in the eyes, "It doesn't matter, I'll have fun reteaching you."

Sherlock felt a prick of a needle against his arm and before he had time to full understand what had happened he faded into unconsciousness.


End file.
